


La Peinture Jaune

by teamfreetitan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bad Touch Trio | Bad Friend Trio, Cussing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Kissing, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-02 20:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16312250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreetitan/pseuds/teamfreetitan
Summary: Francis decided to attend university at an American Ivy League school; in his sophomore year, he became acquainted with a British man who was also in the international relations program, Arthur Kirkland. The pair hardly started off on the right foot, leading to years of debates and petty fights. Francis' plan? Avoid him when he could. That is, until they get seated next to each other in their mandatory history class. And, hey, maybe Arthur isn't that bad...





	1. One

Francis Bonnefoy was a sophomore in college when he first met Arthur Kirkland. A friend of a friend of a friend type of situation that quickly turned sour.

The Ivy League university in America was prestigious to attend to state the least. It was popular among international students for its acclaimed studies, especially in the international relations department which Francis was a part of. Only half, at most, of the students were Americans; most were intelligent (and well off) European and Asian students from overseas. Francis fell into that category, as did many of his friends; so did Arthur Kirkland.

If you had asked Francis whether he deserved to be there or not, he would have given a hearty and enthusiastic of course. After all, he has been very successful in France in school. In class, his marks were high. At the end of his school career, he took the standardized test for the nation: the baccalaureate, or bac for short and swept the floor.

This particular test was out of 20 points… with 10 being passing. In fact, earning all the points was so rare that many agreed  _ Seulement Dieu a vingt points _ . Only God gets 20 points. Nonetheless, Francis received his score with a shocking - but pleasing - result: every point was earned.

So, yes, he deserved to be here.

As a freshmen, he made pals with some of the other students in the international relations department, who he had many classes with. He found himself particularly hanging out with two other European men named Antonio and Gilbert. Antonio was Spanish, and Gilbert was German.

( _ Prussian _ , he would insist, only to be met with the fact that Prussia was, in fact, part of Germany.)

University wasn’t the easiest thing Francis had done, that was for sure. But it wasn’t terrible. Especially as he developed a core group of friends, who were able to help him with the material he was learning. The three friends had a really good time together, too, outside of school. Taking the same classes meant similar free time to meet up for coffee, bowling, and the like. Schoolwork, actual work, friends, parties, and learning…  _ that _ was what college was about.

At the beginning of his sophomore year, Antonio began to invite Lovino to their group. Lovino, and his brother Feliciano, were Italians who had moved to New York when they were teens. Neither was in the international relations major with them, and Francis was clueless as to where Antonio would have picked up someone like the hot-headed Italian, but, they accepted him nonetheless.

This is where it got a little complicated, and Francis liked to block it out. It was a lot of names and he-knows-hims. Long story short, Lovino started hanging out with them. And his brother Feliciano hung out with this other group of guys. And it was through Antonio who went through Lovino who went through Feli who went through his friends that Francis met Arthur.

Really, it was quite obnoxious.

It turned out though that Arthur was the only person in his friend group in international relations. He was British and decently smart. He had caterpillars for eyebrows and a fashion sense that really reiterated that he crawled out of some English landfill.

For his freshmen year, Francis hadn’t thought he was that bad. He barely knew the guy, and not well enough to form any sort of opinion. But sophomore year…

Yikes.

Francis was having a shitty day that day. The shittiest day. Practically sewage. But there was a party, and Francis being Francis had to make an appearance. With rage in his eyes, he riffled through his closet to find a nice enough outfit and nice enough shoes. He just wanted free beer and knew Gilbert and Antonio would stop at nothing to get him to go out.

Begrudgingly, he had obliged, and the house party was just as expected. Popular American music blared from the surround stereo system. Trash littered the floor and it would be a bitch to pick up in the morning, but, honestly, not his problem. Antonio and Lovino had separated from the group one way, and Gil went the other, leaving Francis stranded in this party, knowing no one well.

By name, maybe, but close enough to talk to? Of course not.

Then he spotted Feliciano. They talked a little bit, and it was better to awkwardly join that conversation than awkwardly stand alone.

The others were strangers. Ludwig. Alfred.

Arthur Kirkland.

No longer did Francis remember what he was upset about that night. No longer did he remember what snarky comment came out in annoying British twang to set him off. All he remembered was being frustrated one moment and yelling the next.

The party’s atmosphere seemed to freeze, but that was fine. All that had existed in that moment was anger. Anger. Anger. 

Maybe not even anger. Just hurt and upset and annoyance and a whole soupy mess of emotions.

Some people might have been able to brush something like that off. But it really struck a chord in Francis, and he couldn’t tell you why. He’d joke and make excuses like, his eyebrows were just so bad or maybe if the Brits had better cuisine I wouldn’t have to fight them, but at the end of the day, his motivation to yell confused him as much as it did all of his peers.

_ Not  _ that he would admit that to anyone. Not even Gilbert or Antonio. He had a reputation to maintain.

Following that event, petty debacles broke out every time they interacted. It was almost as if they had been Pavlovian trained with it. 

As Francis learned in his psych elective, the scientist Pavlov had done an experiment involving associations. He observed that dogs salivated when they saw food. By ringing bells when they saw food, he caused them to associate bells with food, and, soon enough, bells alone caused salivation.

Francis was the dog. He had grown to associate Arthur so much with being petty, that so much as seeing him made him itch to argue.

Which was, as Gilbert put it, “mega unhealthy, dude.” So, maybe, yeah, Francis had a wee bit of a problem. It wasn’t a big deal though. They didn’t have to see each other too often. For sophomore and junior year, this plan was flawless: avoid him for the most part, but be able to back his arguments up when they interacted.

Despite having similar courses for the same major, they sat on opposite sides of the room, avoided group work together, and retained separate friend groups. 

Their friend groups were close enough that they ended up at a bunch of the same parties. The school gossip  _ loved _ that, Francis was sure.

He really wasn’t a giant party person. Beer wasn’t really his style (he preferred a nice champagne from the French countryside) and many of the people there were fake, rich people (he preferred his close mates over them). Nonetheless, he always went to the back to school party. He was relatively popular; even if he wasn’t too close to the others, he could still go for a good time once a year, right?

Two years after the fateful fight with Arthur Kirkland, he found himself at the same party. This time, he knew to stick to Gilbert’s side or stay flirting with some hot chick. Experience had taught him the law of the land.

Around midnight, someone suggested a game of truth or dare, which Francis gladly accepted. Finding out people’s deepest truths and making them do weird, often erotic things? Count him in.

The basement held the wide circle of students. 

Alfred Jones, the culinary major who just happened to be at every event for some God forsaken reason, asked Arthur, who dauntlessly replied with dare. Francis snickered behind his red solo cup, waiting for whatever cruel punishment would reprimand Arthur for daring to utter those words. But, retribution never came.

“I dare you… to kiss the hottest person in this circle.”

“I will  _ not _ ,” he huffed in response, his squeaky little British accent hiking up at the end of the sentence. His arms stretched across his chest, wrapped around each other like pretentious snakes as he denied the request. Francis scoffed. This prick really was stuck up. 

Boos shot across the circle. “Not happening!” he reiterated.

Francis was pretty sure his peer’s face was red; he wanted to make a snide remark about how he must have been  _ so embarrassed  _ that everyone was  _ booing _ at him, but for once, the Frenchman held his tongue.

“I need a drink,” Arthur sighed, standing and excusing himself for the circle. Silence settled - or attempted to. Alfred quickly turned to his next victim, a freshman girl. Francis leaned back on the floor, sipping his beverage, drinking.

Had he bothered to go refill his drink, he might have seen Arthur popping open a beer bottle with the wall-mounted opener. He might have seen Arthur run his fingers through his hair and sit by the window, staring out it with glazed over eyes. He might have seen Arthur slip into the bathroom where he stared in the mirror for three minutes exactly before a very drunk Lovino burst in and hurled in the toilet, hair held back by Antonio. He might have seen Arthur open the front door to let the blaring music into the dark night. He might have seen Arthur look at his watch and the dejectedly back at the house before finding his car and driving back to campus.

Francis might have seen one of those things, and, hell, probably would have started some debacle. Because that was what he and Arthur did. One fight felt like it lasted a decade, even if it were mere moments long.

Francis might have seen those things, but quite frankly, he didn’t care.

After all, his tactic of avoiding him had worked pretty well. All of sophomore year it worked. Junior year it worked even better.

But senior year… Oh senior year.

It must have been three in the morning by the time all of the underclassmen left. Some seniors left to take friends home, but this was the event of the year. The coming of age. The senior after party.

“To senior year!” some drunken guy shouted.

“To senior year!” Francis yelled back, slamming down an unnecessary amount of alcohol.

If only he knew what was in store, all held in those three little words…

 

* * *

Arthur anxiously fumbled with his right hand in his pocket, retrieving his cell phone finally. The screen displayed the time 3:16, and he sighed with annoyance and disappointment. He was sixteen minutes late to his twentieth century history class… on the first day, too. Damn. And all because he wanted tea! If that damn barista had been able to hustle just a bit faster…

An angry sighed motivated him to pick up his pace as he rounded the corner into the academic hall. It really wasn’t the poor girl’s fault. Maybe he should have waited until after class to get his beverage.

Stopping in front of the closed door, he sipped the green tea. No, before was just fine.

He put his right hand on the door handle, yanking down with barely enough force for it to open. Not wanting to disturb the class - or alert the professor to his tardiness - he tried to be as quiet as possible. Behind him, he kept his hand on the door until he was absolutely certain it was in place. Then, he looked up to the lecture hall.

It was less of a hall, really. This class was a bit more niche, meaning it had fewer students and didn’t require as big of a space. Twentieth century history… He wasn’t sure how he felt about it yet. Blitzkrieg this, blitzkrieg that, communism, blah blah blah. It couldn’t be that bad - he was well versed in European history, which compromised much of the plunder of the 1900s - and hopefully would be a fairly easy A because of that. The tightknit room, unfortunately, made it harder for his sudden presence to be ignored.

Arthur  _ begged _ internally to silently slip to the back of the room, but his dreams were crushed. More than crushed. Ripped out of his hands and torn to shreds as if the teacher had Wolverine claws.

“Mr. Kirkland, it must be,” the professor said, interrupting herself to do so.

“Yes, ma’am.” It was never good for a college professor to learn your name on the first day: it usually meant you fucked up one way or another. It also meant that she could single him out because he was the only person who didn’t show up.

She stretched out a long, clawed finger and pointed towards to front desk. “There will suffice.”

As if this could get any worse. Arthur’s eyes fell upon the seat she pointed towards. Front row, right in the middle. That was fine and dandy and all, but in the seat directly to the left sat Francis Bonnefoy.

It required all his effort to keep from audibly groaning as he took a seat. He set the plastic cup on the desk as he reached in his bag for paper and a pen. The professor had already gone back to lecturing. Arthur straightened himself out and tensed in anticipation as he waited for the Frenchman next to him to make some snarky comment about his lateness. Nothing came. In fact, it didn’t come for the rest of class. Ever. Something must have been wrong.

Arthur looked up a million times, expectant. 

And yet,  _ nothing _ .

Francis was wearing a navy blue pea coat over a white button up. His shoulder length hair was pulled into a half-hearted, low ponytail. His nails were manicured - there was no color but they  _ must _ have been because they were more groomed than any average guy - and his notes were in a long, scrawling, cursive font. As Arthur’s eyes darted over, he noted that the notes switched between English and French in the middle of sentences, and didn’t always grammatically function.

He almost wanted to call him out about it. Francis’ wonderful first impression on Arthur was picking a fight at a house party, and since then, he hadn’t been much better. Not that Arthur could claim he was a saint; he had his fair share of insulting remarks.

Still.

However, he quickly learned that it was merely a matter of diverted focus. His attention had been directed towards the notes in front of him and the quick speech of the teacher and the Powerpoint on the board. Probably a lot more worthy of his focus.

When the professor let them loose to discuss one of the discussion questions, Arthur was hit in the face like a brick. Having just let his guard down, Arthur was hit with, “Good goin’, Governor,” with a silly British accent. “Great first impression,” was added in a subtle French accent.

This earned rolled eyes. 

Francis waved a hand at the empty cafe cup. “Were you seriously late for tea?” he asked.

“It’s a calming and classic drink!”

A snicker bust from Francis’ lips before he could help himself. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance, but didn’t respond to that.

“Let’s just work on the discussion question, shall we?” Francis sighed in defeat, with no choice but to comply. 

The discussion went surprisingly well. It turned out that both of them were choosing to be petty and argumentative; when Arthur wasn’t focused on jabs at the other bloke, they were able to cooperate quite well. Francis was far from stupid, too.

Nonetheless, he left the class unenthusiastic about the seating choice. But Francis was  _ not _ ruining his senior year, no sirree.


	2. Two

 

 

Twentieth century history… wasn’t horrible. Francis and Arthur made their fair share of roasts - and Francis had it up to his hair when discussing France in World War Two - but Arthur wasn’t the worst.

A wanker, definitely. But not a total asshole. 

Half the fall semester passed by, and Francis would successfully call Arthur an acquaintance. He expected nothing more than that; that was already an achievement. They were cordial enough to avoid total warfare when interacting, and they could see each other at social functions without burning the house down. It certainly calmed the nerves of their friends when they saw the two both at the same event. Francis didn’t like him, but he didn’t hate him.

Probably. Arthur was on thin ice.

October rolled in, and with it came the gelid air and snow. Francis broke out the heavy duty winter clothes as the East coast became shiver-inducing. He tended to overheat inside, so when he wasn’t just leaving or going, he often found a hook or room in his bag for the fabrics.

Over the summer, he had gotten a shared apartment with Antonio and Gilbert which was surprisingly easy to adapt to. Francis was just yanking his coat off the hook when he turned around to see Antonio.

“There’s a party this Saturday,” he said.

Francis raised an eyebrow, urging him to continue.

“Ludwig’s birthday is this week, so his whole group of friends was doing something smaller on Friday but hosting a party at Ludwig’s on Saturday. I heard it was going to be a little calmer - he lives in an apartment - and just some beer pong and music and stuff.  _ But _ Lovino got our entire group on the invitees list. You want to?”

Shoving his arm unceremoniously into the black jacket, Francis nodded. “Can’t hurt. I’m free, too, so I’ve got nothing better to do. I save all my studying for Sundays, after all.”

Antonio smiled. “Awesome!”

 

* * *

 

Friday came and went. Francis attended class and worked a shift. Finally, Saturday night appeared. Something casual. Something lowkey. He decided to just keep the look he had for the day: a baby blue button up tucked into some slacks, with his hair down and an unzipped green hoodie over the whole thing. God, he needed to get his life back on track; not that anything was obviously wrong, but with the way his wardrobe had been going recently, he might as well have been dying.

He quickly found a place on the couch as he watched Gilbert absolutely demolish the Italian brothers at beer pong. That would be Francis’ problem later, but for now, he savored the joy his friend had. Personally, the Frenchman decline the game, saying he wasn’t super up for any alcohol at the moment.

The room felt both empty and full at the same time. There was a sort of spirit which was lacking despite the numerous bodies found throughout the apartment. People were making out and others were bickering for the sake of bickering. His mind flickered to Arthur with a little chuckle.

_ That _ was what was weird to him. Despite being a good friend of Ludwig’s, Arthur wasn’t there. And he had been there earlier.

Francis excused himself from the couch, but the couple next to him didn’t seem to hear him as they were too preoccupied with each other’s lips. All the rooms in the apartments were Brit-free, and the people everywhere was making Francis hot and claustrophobic.

“I’m stepping out for a moment,” he noted tugging on Antonio’s sleeve.

“Sure,” the Spaniard replied with a smile. “You good?” When Francis nodded, he went back to the conversation surrounding him without complaint. Francis was thankful it was so easy to slip away.

Outside, cool air brushed the loose strands of hair falling in Francis’ face. As fall inched into the Northeast (slammed, really) it quickly grew frosty in the evening, like now. Indeed, almost everyone was inside, enjoying the warmth of the celebrations within the home of everyone’s mutual friend. Almost everyone.

Arthur stood on the patio area; from inside, the patio had been obscured because the sliding glass door was closed, and the blinds fell closed in between, effectively hiding Arthur from the rest of the guests. The barrier which walled the patio was made of wood which was painted the same pale blue as the rest of the building, and Arthur leaned his elbows on it. His hips stuck out behind him, and his ankles crossed. The British man stared out from the patio, unfazed by the newcomer. He was talking softly to himself.

Upon closer inspection, he was singing a song, gently mumbling the words, “Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner, that I love London so…”

Francis mirrored his position, leaning over the banister and settling his elbows in the blue wood. “What’re you singing?”

Arthur became alerted to the other, being violently yanked out of his daze. Though it was dark, and only the moon and light through the blinds lit up the patio, Francis was sure a red bloom had come across his face. Arthur tensed his back, assuming a more upright, sturdy position, abandoning the casual one.

“Just a British pub song. Nothing, really,” he replied.

“Why a British pub song?” Francis questioned. “We’re in America.”

Arthur gawked at him slightly before indulging him in answer as he stared at the ground: “That’s the point, really. I’ve just been thinking lately, about England… Sometimes I question if coming to America for school was really the best choice, you know? Just, like, I had to give up a lot to get here and I can’t really get them back anymore. A lot of people. And here is just-” he looked up, eyes widening. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

Waving a hand at him, Francis urged him to continue. With a hesitant sigh, he did. “My grandpa died last month, and I didn’t get to go see him in the hospital because I was an ocean away. And when I came here three years ago, I had to give up my boyfriend and all my friends. I’ve made new friends here, but it’s different, because it’s not like I’ve known them my whole life. I’m over my boyfriend but we dated for a while and I haven’t really experienced anything like that since coming here. I just keep thinking… about how things would be if I stayed. I feel like I’m losing a part of me.”

Francis nodded because he understood. He, too, had given up the life he knew as he ventured to another country for university. But for him, he gave up little. The main family he liked was his cousin who lived in Canada, Matthew. He gave up the culture he loved, but that was ingrained in his soul by now, and no kilometers would separate that. 

He wasn’t sure what to say in response to the soul-baring. Francis was near certain it was driven by proximity, not an actual urge to bond; Arthur ached for an outlet, and Francis was convenient.

Francis was always convenient.

But, he didn’t have to respond.

“May I ask you a question, which might be personal?” Arthur asked. Francis turned his neck to look at him. His eyes were bright and confident, but he ran his fingers through his fluffy hair as he waited for the answer. What could he possibly want to know? Though they’d been partners in twentieth century history, they barely talked outside of it past  _ Do you have the notes? _

Francis nodded.

“Why do you hate me? Is it something I did?”

The Frenchman gaped at him, taken aback by the blunt confrontation. “Hate you?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t hate you, Arthur. I think we got off on the wrong foot, you know. I was having a shitty day when we met and it just set this precedent of bickering. I might have hated you for a little while, but since we’ve been sitting together in history, I definitely don’t hate you. You’re…” he searched for the right word. “Smart,” he settled on.

Francis from sophomore year was crying, somewhere deep inside him. But senior Francis? He was mature enough to understand that people change, and that people aren’t always your first impression.

“Really?” Arthur asked, as if he were surprised.

Looking back, he probably was surprised. They used to fight every time they interacted, but now it turned into pieces of bickering here or there in class.

Not hatred, though. There was certainly something about the British man that was intelligent and cultured and deep. Something like Francis had. He hadn’t been able to identify it before, but as they slowly chipped away at the wall in history class, and nights like this one, there was a very human side to Arthur he hadn’t been able to find before.

“Really,” he reaffirmed.

“I don’t hate you either,” Arthur said.

Francis laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. I-”

The glass door slammed open, blinds flapping behind it. Alfred zoomed in from the central room into the patio, loud and overjoyed as usual. He shouted, “Guess who just beat Antonio at beer pong!” Alfred let out a whoop before being met by two sarcastic droles from the European men he had interrupted.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Francis said, “I’m going to head inside. Maybe home: it’s getting late. Good night.”

* * *

 

“Do you want to be my partner?”

The voice belonged to Arthur, in response to yet another partner project. The teacher of twentieth century history believed that many of the ailments in interstate conflicts were a direct result of a lack of communication; social skills were necessary for diplomacy, and a young generation of leaders would need to know this… and apply it. Though they usually worked with desk partners, or the person in front of or behind them, they were allowed to choose - this one time only.

Francis could hear his other friends behind him. Antonio and Gilbert agreed to work together - not even asking Francis to join. He had some other friends in the class he could ask, but Arthur was here, in front of him, in need.

“Yeah,” he responded. “Let’s get started.”

By the end of class, they had assembled a good report of research; now they had to apply it to the project itself. That necessitated out of class time: their only in class time was that short period of empty time. Colleges disliked giving students time to work on projects in class.

Thanksgiving was rapidly approaching, though neither celebrated. Neither felt a need to. The holiday posed no cultural significance to neither the Frenchman nor the Englishman. Each of their American peers was busy planning around the feast based holiday, including going home to wherever during the break or some of the nearby ones even preparing to help host their family’s dinner. They had through the break to finish the project; probably a bad decision, Francis thought, because most wouldn’t be able to meet up to finish the project. But whatever. That wasn’t his problem. 

Scheduling with Arthur was surprisingly easy. They took similar classes and Francis worked only part time. They settled on two days to finish the project, mostly around Francis’ working schedule: Wednesday afternoon and Friday Saturday evening. The first was to be at the library, in the big center well with the endless windows and rows upon rows of pure, unadulterated knowledge. The second was at Francis’ apartment, because it was too late for the library or most cafes.

(Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, was perfect for the afternoon; Francis had to work the last minute night before panic. Saturday was good because it didn’t impede on Francis’ Black Friday shopping.)

On Wednesday, Arthur was ten minutes late to the library.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized, letting his book bag fall to the floor. Afternoon light streamed in through the expansive windows, rays of sun dancing over the textbook in the hands of the Frenchman. “I had an appointment that ran a little later than expected, and those bloody assholes couldn’t figure out how to speed things up.”

“Jerk,” Francis said, but it was merely empty rhetoric; he had no time to bolster his argumentative claim as his eyes were drawn to the side of Arthur’s face.

Francis tucked his hair behind his ear as he stared across the table: “Did you get an ear piercing?”

Red shot up the face of the British man; that must’ve been his “appointment” because Francis was sure as hell that he hadn’t had the little stub in his left earlobe last time they had interacted. Arthur lifted his left hand up to touch the tender, newly pierced skin. The stud was plain black, circular, and covered a significant portion of his lobe; it was pretty obvious, actually. He spun the little earring in its hole. “Does it look bad? Wait, never mind, I don’t want fashion advice from you.”

Rolled eyes almost fell out of Francis’ head.

“First of all,” Francis began, “don’t insult my fashion sense. I come from one of the fashion capitals of the world-”

“As do I.”

“-and I have impeccable style.” Francis motioned to his outfit, which was expensive looking at the very least. His red button up was undone two buttons, exposing ample collarbone and dipping down into his chest; layered over was a white jacket-coat-thing which Arthur wasn’t sure he could distinguish precisely. “And, Arthur, dumbass, don’t jump to conclusions: I was going to say it looked good.”

Arthur looked up from his bag, where he was snatching books from. “You were?”

“I mean, it would look better on moi, but… Yes, it looks good.” Arthur smiled at the compliment. “Now get to work on our project before we both fail out of college.”

It was Arthur’s turn to roll his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!


	3. Three

Thanksgiving rolled on by and it was nothing special. Friday - Black Friday,specifically - passed without incident, but with what may or may not have been a dent in the young Frenchman’s wallet - hey, at least he could say he was buying Christmas gifts, too! - and then, then, then it was Saturday. Saturday where Francis and Arthur were going to finish their project.

Arthur had never been to Francis’ apartment before. It was an amalgamation of the personalities of Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert: that is to say that it was a nightmare and a disaster and a force to be reckoned with, all at the same time. The kitchen had ingredients and wrappers and bowls splayed out everywhere; someone had cooked breakfast earlier, and it was probably Gilbert but Francis was still sleeping when the waffles were finished. Clothes hung around the couch, waiting for their turn in the washing machine. Textbooks and loose paper covered whatever flat surfaces they could find, and if any of the three ever turned in another assignment without losing it, Francis would personally thank God himself.

Gilbert and Antonio were playing Uno on the couch when Francis opened the door. Arthur stood in the doorway, where the straps of his backpack dug into the soft cardigan over his shoulders. “Hello,” he said.

The two roommates gave each other eyes as if to convey some sort of message between the two of them. It was finally Gilbert who ended up saying, “Do you two want us to leave and get food or something or…?” His voice trailed off in a questioning tone. Arthur flushed red.

“Of course not! We’re just finishing our project, you dirty-minded people!” Francis snapped, giving Arthur an apologetic look. 

His friends knew they sat next to each other in history; after all, Francis complained about it every day Arthur said something even remotely dumb. Which was most days. And they knew that Francis and Arthur were just partners in class. They’d never hung out outside of class-related activities, and Francis was perfectly fine with that. Arthur was alright; he could be witty, and his piercing was cool, too. But Gilbert and Antonio were out of their goddamn minds.

Speaking of that piercing, there was a certain interest piqued by the juxtaposed style of the piercing with the cardigan. The cardigan was striped with a black grid over light blue, and the combination of the nice, black trousers with the cardigan and  _ piercing _ … It definitely wasn’t attractive.

“We know how you are, Francis,” Antonio piped up. “All the men lusting after you.” The two boys on the couch boomed with laughter.

“Thank you, Antonio, very funny. I believe we have a project to do,” he said, turning to Arthur.

Unlike the rest of the apartment, Francis; bedroom was quite tidy and minimalist. Sure, he had his messy vices; particularly he had a lot of clothes and the crazy number of pillows on his huge, white bed really made the room look less put together. Nonetheless, his desk was clear, his bed was made, and his floor was bare. 

They sat on the edge of the bed with their immediate focus on their laps and their other supplies spread out behind them, easy to access. Francis turned on music on his laptop before sliding it across the bed; he picked up the book right behind him.

It was about an hour in when Francis looked up from his work.

“What is it?” questioned the Brit.

“Oh, just the song. I haven’t heard it in a long, long time. I actually danced to it in a ballet performance, back in France. I forgot that it was still on my computer because it’s never come up.” His eyelids fluttered shut, curly lashed extending out against his pale skin. “I still remember the dance,” he said. As he reflected, the volume of his voice sunk low, like he was sharing a secret with Arthur. “I won first place, too.” 

His eyes peeped open. Flashback over.

“I never knew you did ballet. Typical Frenchman,” Arthur laughed. Francis’ lips tipped upwards in a little smile. 

“Eighteen years,” he added. “I started when I was three; my mom danced ballet, too. I got competitive with it when I became a teenager. When I wasn’t studying, I was dancing. Or conditioning. When I had tests, I would stretch out on the floor while I read. My parents would come in and I’d be doing the splits with books all around me.” Francis laughed again. “I even got a scholarship to go be on a dance team at a French university, but I turned it down.”

Arthur looked up at his partner. “Do you still dance?”

Francis shrugged. “Here and there. We don’t have a ballet team here, so it’s mostly a free time thing now. You know the athletic rooms where they host all those campus yoga classes?” Arthur nodded, following along. He was indeed familiar with the student-led classes. “Those rooms are open for anyone to use if they’re not being used by a class. Most people don’t know that. Anyway, I practice there if I was up early enough. Haven’t been for a few weeks though.”

The song ended. “Anyway, it’s not really important.” Francis let out a sigh. “Really.”

Except, for Francis, it was important. His mind had been taken back to dancing, and specifically, to the dance he had done to that song. When he won first place. He missed the simplicity of the choreography which looked so elegant in its plainess. The last few weeks had been busy, preventing him from truly dancing like he wanted to, or even stretching or conditioning. He felt… soft.

As they wrapped up the work - fucking finally! - Arthur nudged Francis’ forearm with his fingertips. “Are you alright?” he asked. “You look… either frustrated or constipated.”

“Always the charmer, huh?” Francis droned sarcastically. “I was just…” Before he could finish, Francis turned around and yanked his laptop close. He flipped through the folders on the electronic device, pulling up a playlist titled, “Danse au minuit.” A soft ballad type song popped up, with a sad-sounding French singer singing a song of woe.

Arthur knew French; all the international relations students had to be taking at least one foreign language, and French was obviously the top choice for Arthur, and had been since high school when he started learning. He listened to the deep, somber voice tell a story of losing the person one loves because they weren’t enough for their beloved. The title - translating to Midnight Dance - was fitting for the soft, subdued music. Humming along with the song, Francis stood and held a hand out: “Danse avec moi?” he asked. Arthur accepted.

Francis pulled his partner upright, onto his sock-clad feet; his shoes had been abandoned a while back. The song was another one he danced ballet too, but this one was never performed at a recital. This particular piece held a special place in his heart, a place too vulnerable to expose to the entire world for judgement. For this song, he tended to dance to it in his morning escapades to the athletic rooms. It was a sort of upbeat but somehow still sad tune, and Francis couldn’t tell you what it meant: he could only feel what it meant.

Though he had an entire routine to it - which he could practically do in his sleep by now - there wasn’t enough room in his bedroom for that without slamming his knee into something and ending his ability to walk let alone dance right then and there. Besides, he was sure Arthur knew about as much about ballet as he did plucking his eyebrows. Absolutely nothing.

Instead, he simply kept his hands in Arthur’s as he pulled him up. Francis let his eyes fall closed as he felt the song, swaying softly. On the other side of his eyelids, Arthur’s hands found his waist as they danced; Francis didn’t make a move to pull away. Engrossed in the music, he found himself climbing closer to the Brit. 

Internally, Francis was off somewhere far away, on a stage made of hardwood, dancing. The lights were blackened, casting shadows along the theater aisles like ghosts howling the song. Only one light shone, and it followed Francis as he lept and spun. His hair was up tight in a little, stubby ponytail which swung back and forth with every movement. Francis, while he danced, lifted his hand up to yank the elastic band from his hair. Always, he had been a firm believer that the only reasons to tie one’s hair back in dance were effect and temperature, and whining about a little sweat was for immatures. The hair tie flung somewhere, but he didn’t care where. It was somewhere in the theater seating, the empty theater seating. Except for the one seat at the front, where a particularly annoying Englishman watched with a strange infatuation.

“Francis?” Arthur asked, rousing the other’s attention by shoving him out of his internal fantasy. The song was coming to a close, and Arthur caused him to miss the big finale.

“Hm?” Francis hummed. The song trailed off. 

Arthur had drawn a little closer than Francis had remembered from before. His hands were strongly and firmly settled on Francis’ hips, and the Frenchman’s arms were tossed over his shoulders, where his wrists crossed behind Arthur’s neck. A yawn tugged at Francis’ cheeks.

“I called an Uber before I got here to get picked up and it’s going to be here in like ten minutes. I just, uh, thought you should know,” Arthur quickly informed him. Francis, whose head had fallen onto his arm in exhaustion, nodded into his elbow. It was faint, but Francis could pick up a subtle whiff of Arthur’s cologne. He could feel the soft cotton of his cardigan. Feel the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed deep breaths. It was late, and they had been working for a long time, and energy drained from them like water from a tub, whirlpooling down and away. For several minutes, the pair stood like this; though Francis had asked to dance, it was more of a gentle tug either way, the personification of a gentle, rocking lullaby.

It must have been about five minutes - he judged from the length of the song, an average length for the music he danced to - when Francis lifted his head from the pillow that used to be his arm. His blonde bangs were loose and fell out of his eyes as he tilted his head a little left, looking into Arthur’s eyes.

In that moment, Francis realized three things.

First, he and Arthur were the same height. Exactly the same height. Often, Francis looked taller, but that must have been the combination between the volume of his hair and the fact that his shoes usually had about two centimeters of heel on them. Here, without shoes, looking up… their eyes met perfectly, same level and all.

Second, and continuing from the first point, Arthur had incredibly green eyes. Before that moment, if you asked Francis what color his eyes were, he would guess green but the hesitancy would be strong. Now, it was so striking that he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed before, let alone stared. They were a lighter green overall, with darker speckles around the edges, and a happy gleam.

Finally, he was hit with a sort of electric shock, almost. Not literally. But as their eyes met, Francis’ abdomen tensed up with anxiety, in the sort of fear one might experience if someone jumped out at them in a corn maze or if they noticed a football flying towards them. A brief, fleeting second of panic. And the panic? It wasn’t entirely horrible.

“What are you staring at, frog?” Arthur snarked.

If Francis were someone else, he might have blushed. But Francis was shameless, absolutely shameless, and there was no point in embarrassment; he knew damn well what he was staring at. Nonetheless, Arthur didn’t need to know.

“Not staring,” he retorted. “Don’t get too big headed, Arthur. Your eyebrows might finally be proportionate, but-”

Arthur’s phone went off; his ride had arrived five minutes early.  _ No rush _ , the driver insisted in his message. Arthur had pulled back, and the two fell apart. Francis’ arms fell limply at his sides as he watched his partner organize his supplies and straighten himself up. The two slipped outside, narrowly avoiding more jarring comments from his frustrating roommates, and Francis walked him to the car. 

“Good night,” Arthur said.

“‘Night. I’ll, uh, see you later?”

Arthur smiled. “Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but hopefully you enjoy! Updates are coming soon! Thank you!


	4. Four

It felt like no time at all before the second semester started. Christmas came by in a blur, and all of a sudden the next year had begun and classes were starting up again (except twentieth century history, which came to a close at the end of the year, and now was replaced by an off period).

(Francis wasn’t sure how he felt about this. The class wasn’t always the most fun - he got a lot of shit in the World War II unit, that was for sure - but sitting by Arthur had become… comfortable in a way. He knew he was going to walk in and Arthur was going to be there and he was going to give Francis salty, probably joking remarks but he was also going to say something smart or make Francis laugh. In some turn of events, they had no classes together this semester: their last semester. Francis was upset by  _ that _ .)

That little electric jump Francis had felt that night, when they were dancing, he felt it again. It wasn’t constant, but once in a while, it would  _ happen _ . And it became more frequent, disgustingly frequent.

He was by no means stupid; he was familiar with this feeling. Being a romantic at heart, it would be weirder if he didn’t know it. Francis had had his fair share of crushes in the past, so when this feeling kept coming up, he hushed it quietly. This was  _ Arthur _ they were talking about.

His heart wanted to argue. Arthur liked guys, for sure: he had mentioned his boyfriend from England before, the one he broke up with. And Francis was riddled with good traits. Arthur would be dumb not to feel the same way! Clearly, his heart insisted. The other driving factor of Francis wanted to slam his head into a wall. His brain knew that Arthur, and whatever  _ this _ was, were bad for him. Francis hadn’t dated in months, not since the end of junior year, and with good reason.

Plus, because their classes didn’t overlap anymore, he didn’t have an excuse to see Arthur. No more projects. No more tests to study for. If either of them wanted to maintain even a friendship, it needed effort.

Which, Francis noted, Arthur likely wouldn’t give. He had no reason to. Unless he liked Francis.

Or they were just friends!

Oh, this love drama was exhausting!

Francis desperately and embarrassingly craved love. That feeling of admiration and being admired. The unfaltering support and acceptance. The soft, sweet touches of a loved one to remind you they’re there. The deep eye gazes, the laughs, the chaste kisses. More than kisses. The feeling of bonding with another human physically and emotionally on a level foreign to anyone else. Francis was a hopeless romantic, that was to say the least. Practically the personification of love poems, he begged for this in his prayers. 

So the issue with developing a slight crush was that every single one of his internal desires manifested. And he hated it. Absolutely fucking hated it. 

He could close his eyes and see himself handing Arthur a rose. See Arthur smiling softly at him. Seee Arthur dancing with him…

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Really, did this love business need so much back and forth? Why couldn’t he just have it or not have it. This grey area curled up in tendris in his stomach and he hated it.

It was mid-January as Francis hashed this out in his brain at his personal dance practice. New Year’s goal: more dancing. It was five in the morning at the latest as he ranted internally, budding a hopeless war inside himself. His phone charmed.

The most jarring point was the time. Who texted at such an ungodly hour?

Arthur Kirkland’s contact name and photo popped up. Of course. Speak of the bloody devil, huh? A text message blinded Francis from the locked screen as he quickly read the short proposition. The white letters said _ , Hey, Francis. Are you busy tonight? Want to hang out? I kind of want an excuse to go to this new Chinese restaurant but don’t want to be a loser and go alone. Just lmk. _

Well, that answered at least one question. Arthur was still interested in hanging out. Why?

Francis didn’t know yet.

He texted back almost instantly:  _ Sounds fun! _

_ Cool. We can go at like 6? _

Francis returned an affirmation that sic o’clock would work before he sent his phone to silent and returned to his dancing. The soft music still played out of his phone as he tiptoed back into the center of the room, giving a single, slow, half-hearted twirl as he contemplated the scenario before him.

A part of him -  _ that _ part of him, the electric shock part of him - curiously turned over a question: how did Arthur feel? That man was impossible to read because every time he started to lean one way, he would swing right back the other; he was an emotional pendulum. If Francis could just get a yes or no to the question he’d never asked, that would be great. It would certainly help his mind learn how to focus on the tasks in front of him instead of small affairs of the heart.

Part of him believed that no affair of the heart was small. If he couldn’t trust the heart, what did he have to trust? The other part of him knew he had more important things to worry about than why Arthur hadn’t texted him back that one time or if he was flirting with some other guy.

Which was so dumb. They weren’t even dating. If Arthur wanted to flirt with another guy then, well, more power to him!

Unbelievable. Absolutely fucking unbelievable. Francis needed to get a grip.

He let his eyes flutter shut and let his body follow the music. Six o’clock needed to hurry up.

 

* * *

 

The day droned on for far too long, but finally six o’clock rolled around and the two met at the Chinese restaurant for dinner. The place was small, clearly new, and well organized. They had take out, delivery, and sit in, and the two opted for sit in for the full restaurant experience. The food was really good - and by really good, Francis meant some of the best food he’d ever had - and the two walked outside as they finished up, thanking the hostess.

It was only January, and Francis’ breath puffed into small clouds as if he were a baby dragon. They quickly walked to the car, but the interior of the metal box was no better. Francis pulled his jacket tight around his chest.

The sun had set long before they’d even gone to dinner. Winter was still high and prevalent in the Northeast, and neither could really say they enjoyed it. Sure, Francis would hypothetically declare so. There was something a little bit romantic about winter. Probably the snow and lights of Christmas, or maybe the cuddling up and cocoa. It was cozy and, even if it was cold outside, made Francis warm on the inside.

But that was just another one of those crush fantasy that finally had an outlet to go to.

He would admit that he liked the idea of laying on the couch in a big hoodie and cabin socks, cuddled up to Arthur on a fire. He’d stretch out his arm to wrap around Arthur’s waist, and Arthur would snuggle in, laying his head on the crook between Francis’ shoulder and chest. He’d lift up his left arm to card his fingers through Arthur’s hair and place a soft kiss on his forehead. Arthur would tilt his head up, looking through his long lashes with his green eyes, then lean forward and kiss-

“Francis,” Arthur said, pulling him from his romantic dreamland and into reality. He looked up with a questioning hum.

Arthur sat in the driver’s spot, leaning into the median and brushing arms with Francis. Francis, who had been staring again, but fine, whatever, brought their eyes together. Arthur sat close - they couldn’t have been more than a few centimeters apart, and it jarred his senses a little - as he repeated, “I asked if you wanted me to drive you home or if you wanted to hang out for a little longer.”

“We can hang out,” Francis said. His voice naturally fell in the silence of the environment. “What do you want to do?”

Arthur shrugged. “We could just go back to mine if you want. I can make tea, or maybe I have some wine or something.”

Francis nodded. “Alright,” he agreed.

 

* * *

 

He thought Arthur liked him too. Or maybe he was just crazy. But hopefully the first.

Well, he knew Arthur was gay, or at the very least, liked boys. He’d mentioned having a boyfriend before he left for America, which meant that Francis had a chance. Arthur always sat close, and jokingly banted with him, but he wasn’t mean, never mean. Arthur had a flirtatious air about him.

The only thing which made Francis question was the fact that, every time Arthur got a little bit too open, he pulled himself back. Francis didn’t like that.

He jingled the keys into the door and pushed open the wood slab, revealing one big room. Arthur had a studio apartment so that he could afford rent and tuition at the same time as saving for his trips home over the holidays. To the left was a small kitchen with a kitchen island table; the bathroom was over there, too. In front of the entrance, the living room, or as close as there would be to it, with two bean bag chairs and a television. To the right seemed to be the focus of the room, with a done up bed covered in fluffy pillows, a desk, and a multitude of handy things, such as his backpack.

“It’s not much, but…” Arthur trailed off. 

He tossed the keys onto the hook by the door, locking both locks on it, just in case. Francis had occupied himself by looking around when he’d turned back.

It wasn’t in a creepy way, like he was trying to find anything serious. More so a casual gander, to gage a little more about his crush. He eyes the books on the shelf - most were school books or poetry - and some knick-knacks and photos.

There was a little collage on the shelf which he looked at. 

“Who are these?” Francis asked.

Arthur strode over, looking over his shoulder. He began to point out people in the pictures: his mom and dad, his old friends, his siblings and cousins, his ex boyfriend.

“My friend made this for me before I left. She just collected a bunch of pictures from school and arranged them for me so I would have a hard copy.” He faintly smiled. 

“You miss them,” Francis said, not asked.

Arthur’s smile faltered. “Yeah. I miss my family and friends of course, but I got to see them last month, and I talk to all of them a lot. I don’t really miss my ex anymore. We ended up breaking up when I left for America, and he’s dating someone else now. I guess I’ve just always been more worldly oriented; he wanted someone to settle down with in England and I just didn’t want that, you know?” 

Francis set the photos down.

“Have you dated anyone else since then?”

“No,” he answered. 

Francis’ attention had been pulled to a book on the shelf, and he plucked it off. It was a volume of Edgar Allan Poe works. “‘We loved with a love that was more than love.’ Annabel Lee. Romantic,” Francis read and commentated. “Good poem. Good  _ author _ . A little dark for my tastes though, but the occasional good quote I suppose. I prefer… much happier love poems. It… captures the essence a little bit better.”

“Have you been in love?”

Francis gnawed his lip thoughtfully. “No,” he replied. 

For as much as he loved love, he had never loved a person. At least not the kind of love that he loved. Not the soul consuming, heated, passionate love which each person wanted to have for themselves. No one had ever stayed long enough for that kind of love.

Arthur hummed.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that-”

An angry ringing interrupted any thought that Arthur would finish. With a sigh, Francis picked up the phone call from Antonio. 

“I need help,” his Spanish friend said into the line. “Could you, like, come home? Gilbert got, like, drunk as fuck and now he’s actually dying.  _ Please _ , Francis, I need your help taking care of him. What if he dies, Francis?!” 

“Woah, woah, woah, calm down, Antonio. I’ll be home in a few minutes.” The phone hung up, probably in a frantic ending by Antonio. “I need to go; my roommate’s sick.” Francis explained. “Would you mind driving me home?”

“Of course,” Arthur smiled, taking the poetry book and putting it back in the shelf. “Let’s go.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter of a chapter, but the next one will definitely be longer. I hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much!


	5. Five

 

Francis had been almost certain that, when Arthur stopped his car on the side of the road outside the apartment to let Francis out that he was going to kiss him. He had sort of leaned over on the little compartment between the two front seats, his elbow digging into the rubber, and gave Francis this look he couldn’t quite figure out. Francis sat there, feeling a little awkward, and waited to see if Arthur was going to do anything.

He very, very much wanted to lean over and connect their lips, but he didn’t. It was peculiar; usually he was the suave type, and he was always the type to make a move like that. But some force held him in place, leaving the only contact between their eyes.

“Thanks,” Francis had said, before sliding out of the car.

A sort of heaviness hung over him as he walked into the apartment. Regret, maybe, as if it would have been better to have just kissed him right then and there without restraint. But they weren’t even dating! Francis tossed the idea back and forth in his mind. He certainly wanted more than a hook-up. He wanted a relationship. He wanted  _ Arthur _ . So maybe the right move was to ask him on a date instead of just going in for the kiss; if all went well on the date, then he could make such a bold move. But that was provided that he even got a date in the first place and he really didn’t want to mess anything up with Arthur and-

And the rancid stench of vomit hit his nose. Right, the reason he had come home in the first place. 

Because Gilbert was drunk as hell and Antonio couldn’t handle the poor German on his own. He set the door closed behind him and flicked the lock as he toed off his shoes. As he walked down the hallway to the bathroom he heard Antonio’s panicked Spanish accent.

“Dios mio, come on,” he said. As Francis pushed the door aside and stepped in, he saw Gilbert, head hanging over the toilet, eyes rolled back in his head. He was very much alive - Francis could tell by the slurred cursing that Antonio received in response - and very much drunk. Gilbert choked a little bit and Antonio was quick to push his hair back over his forehead as he threw up again. “You need to stop drinking, Gilbert,” Antonio added as a general thought.

Gilbert - was he trying to be a hardass? - reached under his hoodie and pulled out another bottle of beer. Francis was astonished, frankly, that he was able to open it without a bottle opener, and that, despite the circumstances, continued to drink.

“What the fuck, Gilbert?” Francis asked. Antonio paused his wrestling for the bottle as they both looked up at him. Apparently they hadn’t noticed he had arrived.

Gilbert groaned.

Francis stepped closer, squatting on the other side of Gilbert, brushing his cheek with his fingers. He was burning up, and upon closer inspection, his red eyes were swollen with forlorn tears.

“What happened?” Francis asked. “What’s wrong?” He lifted his hand up to take the beer bottle and, to his surprise, Gilbert let the bottle go without putting up for a fight. Francis set it on the counter with a clunking noise. 

A sob raked his body - Francis thought he was throwing up again - and then several more. The sobs were tearless, dry, more aching sounds than anything else. But when he finally managed to compose himself, he let out several words which Francis was able to string together: “My little brother - died - accident -”

“I’m sorry,” Francis whispered, pushing his hair off of his sweaty forehead: it just couldn’t seem to stay out of the way. 

Gilbert talked about his brother a lot. He was a lot younger, having still been in middle school when Gilbert first moved to the United States. As a college senior, his brother would have been in high school. The two texted every day, and despite his flippant tone, Gilbert cared a lot for him. He had a fascination with history - particularly Holy Roman and Italian history - and art. Each time Gilbert mentioned him, it was clear that he would move the moon just to make him happy. And he was gone now, and Gilbert was so drunk he could barely hold himself upright.

The German was crying again, with his head resting on the toilet seat, tears dripping down into the bowl. Antonio said something, but Francis missed it.

“Come on,” he said, helping Gilbert upwards. He brought the man into his room and laid him on his bed. As an afterthought, he brought a trashcan in just in case he puked again. Francis wanted to say something, but the man was already asleep. He shut the door softly.

 

* * *

The January air was crisp and biting. Francis stood outside of Arthur’s door. He was going to do it. He was going to tell Arthur how he felt. He was tired of sitting idly by while time kept ticking. He was going to do it.

But at the end of the night. He didn’t want to ruin the entire evening by starting out with something only to get rejected. There were just so many ways it could go wrong and he was nervous - beyond nervous - that even standing outside the door caused his heart to leap in his chest. Really, all he needed to do was knock, and stop being a baby about it. So he brought up his hand and rapped once, twice, three times with his knuckles against the door hiding the studio apartment from the outside world.

Arthur eagerly answered, wearing his sweater and blue jeans. He certainly looked a lot warmer than Francis, even though Francis had his jacket pulled tight around his chest.

The evening was going incredibly smoothly. Arthur had ordered pizza for the two of them and they were just hanging out. They lounged on his bed and played video games for a short while, eating pizza and talking about classes. And the conversations went a little bit deeper, and got a little bit personal. The next thing he knew, Francis had exposed how ballet dancing had been a wonderful coping method when he had been depressed in high school - much better than the therapist he had seen - and Arthur had confessed he had been picked on a lot in the UK and it made him feel worthless until he just… got tired of feeling that way, and stopped.

The game had been paused long before, and the pizza moved to the nearby desk. And suddenly, in front of him, Francis didn’t see an attractive Englishman who he enjoyed bickering with, but rather, a strong individual, who had grown so much and it made him angry that anyone would be mean the Arthur.

And it flashed through his mind that  _ he _ used to be mean to Arthur, too, before they were friends, before Francis had feelings for him. They still squabled, of course, but he could just think about Arthur discarding ihis insults because he was just tired of feeling inadequate. So he chose to ignore them, play back instead of forfeiting.

Francis wished he had that skill: nothing he had ever done had ever felt like enough. He scored a twenty on the Bac and he still felt like he could have done better somehow. He styled his hair and picked coordinating outfits and it didn’t ever feel quite right. And in high school he had danced and danced because it was easier than letting those feelings win; dancing felt right like nothing else did.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t told Arthur how his heart was pounding and how his hands were sweaty and how he absolutely, positively wanted Arthur to know that he was enough and he didn’t have to fight that with apathy because no matter what any asshole told him, he was  _ enough _ . 

So if Francis approached that like he approached dance, maybe he could be productive and wipe away the fear.

Well, most of his routines started off a little slower, with aesthetic build up, and then the chorus or intensity came and along with it came the jumps and spins and powerful moves. These last few months had been just build up - his little spins and tip-toeing around - so he really, really ought to just get to the meat of the routine -

“Francis?” Arthur breathed out softly.

At first Francis was worried that Arthur was going to ask him why he was staring again, just as he had that evening they had danced together, and he was going to get derailed again from his point. He needed Arthur to not ruin his train of thought because the build up of trust and intimacy was perfect for making Francis feel like maybe he could utter the secret he had pressed inside for months.

He was going to tell him.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Francis didn’t get the chance because, before he could so much as part his lips, Arthur brought his hand up and cupped his cheek, leaned forward, and kissed his lips. Francis fell compliant under his touch, malleable under his hands which were soft and his lips which were even softer. Arthur brought his free hand up to card it through Francis’ hair, hanging loose around his face, and Francis was more than happy to lean in and set his hands at the top of Arthur’s arms, running from his shoulders down to his bent elbows. He tasted like pizza and raspberry tea and Francis was perfectly content to let him keep kissing him.

They broke apart after several lingering, passionate kisses. Illuminated only by the video game lighting, Francis ran his fingers across Arthur’s cheekbone, up into his hair. Their lips found each other again, softer this time.

In a sudden burst of force and confidence, Francis found himself being pushed down onto the mattress by gentle but intent fingers. Arthur let his head be settled on the pillows before reaching down to kiss him again, straddling one leg so their legs fell in an alternating pattern. Francis wrapped his arms around his neck to pull him closer, tighter. Arthur let himself be dragged down.

Of course, this posed the question in Francis’ mind of what this meant for him. Unless Arthur could read minds - and many of their interactions would have gone smoother if he could have, so Francis trusted that he didn’t - he still hadn’t confessed his feelings. Francis knew this kissing could exist without the affirmation of such feelings, and he hoped it meant Arthur felt the same, but… He still needed the answer. Did Arthur feel the same intense heartbeat and budding, profound connection? Or did he merely want to use Francis as a hook up of sorts?

But that particular question could wait until their makeout session ended, Francis decided as Arthur pushed down the collar of his shirt to work on the beginning of a small, purple hickey. The question could be ignored until it demanded an answer.

Or an answer was provided, apparently.

Hovering above Francis, Arthur’s right hand had dipped lower and lower, away from his clavicle and falling towards his legs. The pads of his fingers rubbed circles into his quads and hips until they found the place between his legs, grinding down with his hand encouragingly.

Francis leaped back, or at least did as close as he could to that while he was laying under the Brit. He pulled back into a position which wasn’t upright nor was it down, but as if he was stuck in some sort of pathetic sit up position. Arthur jumped back too. They weren’t dating; they weren’t official - not yet - so why was Arthur pulling such a bold, sexual move? One reserved for a relationship of a caliber their’s wasn’t?

That served to answer Francis’ question. Arthur wasn’t looking for a relationship apparently.

“What the hell?” Francis asked.

Arthur put his hands up in defense. “I just thought that we could, you know, maybe-”

“We can’t,” Francis informed the English man. He pulled his legs out from under Arthur’s body and swung them over the side of the bed, adjusting his collar from where Arthur had pulled it out of the way. His fingers brushed over the sensitive spot where a bruise would definitely form, and it forced a disappointed, frustrated sigh out of him.

“I had just heard some rumors that, with other people, you had-” he argued.

Francis stood up, grabbing his phone off of the table. “So you thought I’d sleep with you, too?” he asked. “Just because you heard rumors that I’d slept with other people?” 

Arthur shifted so that he was sitting, staring up at the other man. “When you put it that way…” he said, voice trailing off. “It sounds bad.”

“Uh-huh,” Francis huffed. “Fucking typical. Just typical. You know-” he pulled his shoes on, “-I really like you, Arthur. But you just think I’m a slut.” He shoved his heel into the shoe, and it bent under his weight, but he didn’t want to fix it just then. “I was wondering - if you were interested in me - would you want a relationship or would you want my body. Guess I got my answer.”

“Francis, wait.”

The door felt behind him, and Francis made it to the end of the hallway before he burst into tears. His breaths puffed like spheres of smoke into the air, and if he cried too much, it would freeze his face in this night air. All around him was darkness or harsh lights - no in between - so he found a decent place on the curb to sit while he waited for Antonio to pick him up.

 

* * *

 

“You look like a mess,” Antonio commented to the silent car.

“Just drive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around to read! I'm also working on a Hitman Jones RusAme fic if that's your cup of tea, as well as starting a couple short one-shots on my page if you want to read more! :D


	6. Six

 

 

Gilbert was getting on Francis’ nerves, but then again, what wasn’t?

He was off from work, classes, and obligations, and after the previous night, he was perfectly fine with that. Francis desperately craved an evening to sulk. Reclined in his bed, he sat with a bottle of beer in his hand, downing a little bit more than he should have.

But Gilbert had gone out shopping earlier, and Francis had specifically requested _wine_ . It was a wine sort of day. Most days were. It was a versatile drink! Perfect for romantic dinners, getting shit-faced, helping your heart, church, a warm bath, _and_ self pity! Really, Gilbert should know this buy now. Of course he had to show up with a six-pack of beer. Of course he did. Because _that_ was what Francis wanted right now.   
He was whining, yes. He’d always been told he was a little melodramatic. And when he’d articulated to Gilbert that the reason he was upset, Gilbert had said, “You’re upset because the guy you’re into wanted to fuck you? You’ve got issues, dude.”

Francis wanted to cut him a little slack. He’d gone to Germany and back for his little brother’s funeral, and it was evident he was still in the mourning process. Nonetheless, Francis wasn’t in a good enough mood - nor did he have the energy - to be understanding. The beer thing was fine, really. A little annoying, but at least Gilbert got _something_. What was annoying him now was Gilbert, standing in the doorway.

Okay, so maybe Francis had been crying. Just a little bit. Because he really, really liked Arthur, and he was really, really tired of being seen so… poorly. He wasn’t even like that! And he was, at the core, a little heart broken. He was also ignoring Arthur - all seven calls, two voicemails, and ten text messages, Jesus Christ - and it took so much restraint to avoid returning one of those calls or at least listening to the messages. So year, he had been crying. He felt like that was completely and utterly justified.

“You don’t have a reason to cry,” Gilbert said from the end of the bed. “Or drink so much! How about you and Toni and I go out, huh? But no more drinks for you. We can go and find you an even hotter guy!”

Francis was certain Gilbert was entirely missing the point.

He knew the German was just trying to cheer him up; it was out of character for Francis to lay in bed on a Saturday night in ugly sweatpants and a hoodie with holes in the elbows, covered in crumbs, his hair in a messy man bun, and his eyes all red and - disgustingly enough - crusty. But, really, Francis just wanted to mope. Why couldn’t Gilbert just get that?  
“You’re hardly in a place to judge me for drinking,” Francis retorted. “I’m not the one who’s half passed out on a toilet and about to choke to death on my own damn vomit.”

“They’re two completely different situations,” Gilbert responded, brows growing more tightly knit.

Francis knew this.

“Still, doesn’t mean you get to be a hypocrite. Leave me alone, s’il te plait.”

“So you can pout? That’s ridiculous. Get your head out of your-”

Francis pushed the blanket off of him, hastily wiping crumbs on his floor and off of his slender frame. “I don’t want to argue, Gilbert. I’m serious. I feel like shit and everything hurts and I really just want to be left alone. Okay?” He set the beer on his desk before walking out of the room, past Gilbert, without so much as a second glance. He closed the front door roughly behind him as he disappeared into the night.

 

* * *

 

He appeared several minutes later in a McDonald’s with lights that were too bright for his liking. He had only grabbed his phone, so he only had the few dollars in his case. Despite the freezing temperatures, he ordered a chocolate milkshake. At a booth in the back, he kicked his feet up on the parallel seat and sucked at the thick, chocolate drink.

Francis looked blankly down at his phone, whose screen was bare. Tears, pathetically, still boiled up in his eyes, but he was quick to wipe them away with his sleeve.

A call popped up.

Arthur.

He debated what to do. Part of him was the angry, frustrated part which had ignored all the previous messages; the other part was the part of him that he had to crush to not answer. He didn’t have the energy to crush it right then and there; there was something about Arthur which, even in his rage, prevented Francis from resisting. Each person had their thing that was bad for them, which they clung to. The thing that made them happy, even if it made them hurt. One's yellow paint, for the art fans. Arthur was his yellow paint; Arthur was his peinture jaune.

A hand darted out, and next thing he knew, the phone was held against his ear.

“Oh, thank God,” he heard Arthur breathe out against the microphone.

“What do you want?” Francis asked; his tone was monotonous into the device, and it urged a question in response.

“Oh, God, Francis, have you been crying?”

With a sniffle, Francis denied the accusation. It was useless, though, as he had clearly been crying. It was evident in his hoarse voice and wet, runny nose. The reminder - and the sound of Arthur’s voice - made him want to break down all over again.

“Hold on,” he said, “and let me…” He stood up to go to the poor, cold, McDonald’s restroom, wiping his eyes on the rough paper towels.

“Where are you?” Arthur asked. “Are you at your apartment?”

Francis shook his head before realizing his conversational partner couldn’t see him. “I’m at McDonald’s,” he clarified. “I don’t want to be there right now. And I, well, I don’t know where I’m going to go.”

There was a shuffling in the background, and for a second, Francis thought Arthur might have hung up. But then there came another shuffling, and possibly… jingling?

“I’m coming to pick you up,” Arthur said.

“I think the fuck not.” His voice resounded in the empty bathroom.

“I think the fuck so.”

Francis huffed. The phone line cut out.

 

 

* * *

 

It couldn’t have been too long - less than ten minutes for certain - when the door to the empty men’s bathroom opened up. Francis, trying to clean himself up over the automatic water faucet, jolted his head up. Arthur stood there, wearing a blue button up and black trousers. Francis felt meek in his pajama clothing, with his sore eyes and half-beer half-milkshake breath.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” Francis said, though he’d known since the stubborn jingle of the keys that he would.

“Of course I did. You can stay at my place tonight, or until you want to go back to your apartment. However long you want.”

Francis rolled his eyes and followed the Brit out of the bathroom.

They walked out of the fast food restaurant after Francis shoved his cup in the overflowing garbage can. Out the door, cold air hit him, the same cold air he traipsed through to get to the McDonald’s in the first place. This time, it was figure headed by a promise of a warm car, a warm apartment. He walked over to Arthur’s car as he pressed the button on his keys to unlock it.

The car parked next to them housed some rowdy college aged young adults who clambered out of the large vehicle. One of the girls, as Francis approached, made an indistinct, lewd comment. Francis ignored it.

“Which one?” one of the other girls asked.

“The one in the sweatpants,” the first girl responded with a singsong tone. “I’d let him fuck me up, down, and sideways,” she added with a laugh.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Arthur shouted over the car. The girl looked up at him, wide eyes. She gave the excuse that she hadn’t expected him to hear her comment about his friend. “Well you shouldn’t have made it either way,” Arthur said, growing angrier.

Francis tugged on the door, but in the seconds that had passed, it had again locked. He tried again, just in case. The results were the same.

“Maybe he’s interested,” she justified it.

“He’s fucking not,” Arthur said, near yelling. “No one wants your repulsive, unsolicited comments, and I’m afraid I can’t just let you treat him or anyone else in such a disgusting manner.”

She laughed, tossed a wink at Francis, and sauntered inside.

Arthur pressed to unlock the car again, and once he had situated the key in the ignition, dropped the keyring so aggressively that he might as well have thrown it. The car needed a second to heat up again, so he pressed the back of his head against the headrest, letting out a heaving sigh. He muttered a curse word to himself.

“Thank you for picking me up,” Francis said, “but don’t think I’m not upset.”

No words were exchanged between them as Arthur drove; what had once been wonderful conversation dwindled to silence, as neither had the confidence to begin a conversation.

Francis watched the blurred scenery outside the window.

 

* * *

 

Arthur had graciously offered Francis the bed, and he would sleep in a chair or on the floor. Whichever. But Francis could have the bed to himself. However, Francis refused to let Arthur do as such; he was a guest and even if he was angry at Arthur he wasn’t going to make him sleep on the cold, hard floor. _Francis_ would sleep on the floor. But Arthur shut that idea down, too.

The was how they ended up in Arthur’s bed, a foot of space between them, darkness shrouding them.

“Thanks,” Francis breathed out into the pitch black studio apartment.

“It was really the least I could do,” Arthur insisted. “Besides, after the way those girls were treating you, you really do deserve at least one thing to go right today.”

Francis shifted in the bed, rolling onto his right side so he was facing Arthur. His right shoulder dug into the blue sheets and he anxiously tried to find the right place for his legs. Arthur was laying on his back, straight as a board: he didn’t want to accidentally bump Francis, the French man assumed, and Francis understood. After the previous night, if tables were turned, he wouldn’t want to touch Arthur accidentally either.

“I’m used to it,” he confessed.

“Used to people yelling at you in the streets?”

“Well,” Francis began, “less so that, but definitely that. More so… being seen as a sexual object, you know? When I bring anyone over, my roommates assume I’m sleeping with them. I get lewd comments made about me. I know the rumors that are said about me, and I really wanted to think no one believed them, but…”

He didn’t have to finish: they both knew what he was getting at. _But you did, Arthur_.

“But I’m not a slut,” he settled on. “I used to mess around a little bit as a freshman and into my sophomore year. It was more experimentation than anything, but I developed a reputation. I matured going into my junior year, and I wanted a real relationship.The last person I slept with was almost nine months ago before she broke up with me. I used to mess around, yeah, but I don’t do that anymore. It seems to follow me, though.”

He felt Arthur turn towards him.

“I probably don’t help myself,” Francis added. “I make sex jokes to my friends all the time, and I used to point out people I thought were hot. So I guess that would fuel it a little bit, too.”

Arthur breathed out, then in, then out again, thinking, processing. Finally, he began to speak. “I’m sorry for assuming,” he said. “I had heard rumors from Alfred and Feliciano that you had slept with Alfred, and that you’d been with other people, too. They made it sound like you never wanted a serious relationship, and I took their word for it. I mean, you’re still young; there’s no obligation to settle down yet, or at all. So it made sense to me. I wanted to be with you, Francis - I still do - but I thought that, I don’t know, if you weren’t looking for anything serious, that was as close as I could get. It was dumb, and I’m sorry.”

“Alfred and I… messed around a little before. It was a while ago. I don’t really know him and never really got to know him. But, Arthur, I accept your apology.”

“Francis, I do like you. I want you to know that. The last person I have felt for was my ex boyfriend before I moved to America. I took about a year getting over him, but after that, there was simply no one I really liked that much. But I like you that much.” Silence. Thinking. “You said you liked me, too.”

“A lot,” Francis confirmed.

“Would you give me a second chance?” Arthur asked. His voice was rushed, hurried, as if he needed to get the words out quickly so he could get an answer faster. “I’ll talk to you better, and I won’t-”

Francis nudged his bicep, interrupting him. “Yes, you can have a second chance.”

“I’ll take you to dinner next time we’re both free,” Arthur promised.

He was shushed. “Technicalities,” Francis whispered as he rolled closer. Their arms were pressed close together, and their knees brushed. “Kiss me,” he said.

Arthur lifted up his right hand to tenderly cup Francis’ face. He leaned over to press their lips together gently, a soft, fleeting feeling. It was free of demand and insistence, but contained the same passion and fervor of the previous night. Francis smiled into the kiss before he pulled back and laid down on the pillow. A yawn escaped his lips.

“Sleep now, kissing later,” Francis murmured, leaning his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur was happy to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this all the way through! I hope you enjoyed it! I will have a small piece to accompany this fic on my page soon, so if you are interested, keep an eye out for it! I also have a couple other works. Again, thank you for your support, kudos, comments, etc!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments, bookmarks, and kudos are appreciated :D


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